


Radioactive

by magesticturtles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, One Shot, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magesticturtles/pseuds/magesticturtles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Larry, AU, in which Harry goes off to serve in the Army and has to leave Louis. Based on the song Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. Harry meets Liam and Zayn; Liam, whose mother was so against him enlisting that she kicked him out and Zayn, who’s fighting, like Harry, for his boyfriend, Niall, who is back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radioactive

**Author's Note:**

> Second ever post! Tell me what you think (: There's also a tumblr version, if you prefer: http://fuckershine.tumblr.com/post/53197212761/radioactive

_I’m waking up_

_To ash and dust_

_I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust_

_I’m breathing in the chemicals_

Harry eyes snap open because someone is yelling in his ear. It’s been like this for over three days, but he’s still not used to it. He can feel it in his heart—he’s about to explode at this camp.

“PRIVATE STYLES,” someone is screaming. “GET OUT OF BED! YOUR FELLOW SOLDIERS ARE  _WAITING_  ON YOU, SLEEPING BEAUTY!”

Harry quickly drags himself out of bed before more screaming can happen. He hates this place—hates it and loves it. He’s always wanted to serve in the U.S. Army, even as a kid. He’d line up all his little G.I. Joes on the shelf above his bed and scream at them to be tougher. What’s sort of funny is that the real Army is actually like that: there is always someone screaming at you from the sidelines in the motivational and discouraging way that only the army can achieve.

Harry has never had to get up before nine o’clock on a weekend before. He’s never been forced to share a room with several other, bulkier men. He’s never been timed for everything he does: eating, sleeping, even using the restroom. He’s always had a pretty cushy life in New York, with his mom and his sister and their apartment close to the school area and their Pancake Tuesdays.

Here Harry’s up at four-thirty every morning. He’s got to make his bed and get ready and dressed in just fifteen minutes and he has to meet everyone at the dining hall at a set time every morning. His limbs ache from the brutal training and his mind is exhausted. He doesn’t have a phone to call Louis or Gemma, and he hasn’t talked to his mum since he was deployed.

Really the only thing keeping Harry Styles from exploding is the thought of the beautiful boy he has waiting for him at home.

 

Louis was the only one who supported Harry in his decision to join the army. Sure he’d cried and screamed and even refused to talk to Harry for about a week, but when the dust had settled, he was the only one who fully accepted his decision.

Louis and Harry had been dating for two years, since Harry was seventeen. Louis was Harry’s first everything: first kiss, first boyfriend, first sexual experience, first love. Harry was Louis’ soldier already—it didn’t mean he’d wanted him to go off into war, but the way Harry talked about doing so much good for his country, you would have thought it was the best thing in the world.

And finally, Louis let him go.

So Harry thinks of Louis while he’s in this little section of hell; his smile, his hair, the way he was tiny even though he was older than Harry by two years, his little porcelain nose that Harry loves so much. Harry would have joined the army as soon as he was eighteen, but there was the issue of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell act going on at the time. He’d actually jumped for joy when the damn thing was repealed and he could finally enlist.

Harry’s standing arrow straight in the lineup as the Staff sergeant paces in front of them, surveying them in a way that makes Harry want to grab for Louis’ hand.

The sergeant stops right in front of the man next to Harry. Harry can’t help but glance at them, even though he knows he’s supposed to stay still and face the blank space in front of him. The sergeant drills several hurtful insults into the guy until his eyes are red with unshed tears and all he can manage is a feeble ‘yes sir’. He moves onto Harry.

“What about you, Styles?” the sergeant  says, speaking in an almost eerily conversational tone.

“What  _about_  me, sir?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to serve my country, sir.” Harry’s quite proud that his voice is as calm and steady as the sergeant’s is.

“I’m sure your country wants to see you with your fly zipped, Styles!” Now his tone is all shouty and obscene and is making Harry extremely uncomfortable. He’s never liked shouting. His parents used to do it all the time, before the divorce.

Harry quickly looks down to see that, indeed, his zipper’s undone and while nothing’s really showing, it’s rather rude to walk around like that. He does it quickly, but the damage is already done.

“STYLES!” Some of the sergeant’s spit actually flies into his face like a fucking cartoon and it takes all his resolution not to lift his arm and wipe it away. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE ARMY DOES WITH PEOPLE WHO CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO PROPERLY DRESS THEMSELVES?”

“No, sir!” Harry shouts back. He internally winces at the tone of his own voice—it’s like the only way anything can get done around here is by yelling. The sergeant gives him a smile that’s more like a horrifying grimace before walking over to one of the storage cabinets and pulling out a few white rags.

“They get to clean out the tanks!” The sergeant bellows, thrusting the rags into Harry’s hands. “Each and every one of ‘em, and I’ll know if you slack off!”

“Wait, you want me to wash the infantry tanks  _dry_?” Harry asks. He honestly doesn’t know why he opens his mouth; if he was anyone else he could have just gone to the tanks and washed them as best as he could without soap or water and then brought up the issue later. But no—he was Harry. Stupid, proud, loudmouthed Harry.

“YOU TALKIN’ BACK TO ME, SONNY?”

“Well,” another private interjected in a small, steady voice. Harry squinted at the name sewn into his front pocket— _Payne_. “You do realize that he’s got nothing to really  _clean_ with, right? The best he can do with a couple of dry towels is scrub some dirt off.”

There was a small, shocked silence as everyone registered that someone had actually  _talked back_ to the sergeant on behalf of  _Harry_. Then—

“YOU CAN JOIN HIM, THEN, PAYNE! AND I BETTER NOT SEE ANY DAWDLING—I’LL BE CHECKING ON YOU!”

 

_I’m breaking in,_

_Shaping up_

_Then checking out on the prison bus_

_This is it, the apocalypse_

 

The two don’t speak to each other as they walk out to the tanks. Payne walks a little bit ahead of Harry, like he wants to disassociate himself from him, which Harry sort of gets, considering he indirectly got him in trouble in the first place. Then again, he didn’t  _tell_  Payne to defend him.

Harry remembers him from enlistment. Louis had been hanging onto Harry as if his life depended on it while they were in the lines for anyone whose last names began with the letters  _P_  through  _T_. Payne had been right in front of them, and Harry had noticed him immediately because his hair was already cut short and because he was one of the few that was all alone—no family, friends or a significant other was with him, and Harry wondered why.

Payne looks a different since enlistment. He hadn’t been particularly muscled then, just tall and lean. That had only been two or three weeks ago, and Harry can’t believe that he’s already got bulging biceps underneath that heavy camouflage uniform. Harry’s noticed that he himself has started to gain a bit of muscle, stripping away what was left of his baby fat.

Payne doesn’t talk as they reached the first tank, just grabs a towel and starts scrubbing ferociously anywhere he can find.

“Hey, mate, take it easy,” Harry says, watching as he pretty much attacks the vehicle with the rough towel. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“I know, I just—” the short haired man groans makes a frustrated noise, tilting his head back and pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.  Harry can see a birthmark on his neck. “I really just can’t stand people like that, you know? The unfair ones.”

Harry nods although Payne’s hands are still over his eyes. “I get what you mean,” Harry says quietly, thinking of  _Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell_.

“Like, I couldn’t enlist for a while,” Payne says, looking Harry dead in the eye. There’s a challenge in his eyes, like he’s daring Harry to laugh at his next words. “My mom didn’t want me to go, because of what happened to my dad.” He pauses to clear his throat. “He—he died a while ago. The PTSD finally got to him, after nine eleven.” Harry nods. Payne is still looking at him with the challenge in his eyes, but Harry’s never heard anything less funny in his life.

“It was just always unfair. I wanted to serve, and she knew that, theoretically, she couldn’t stop me if I wanted to. A few months after I turned eighteen I enlisted.”

“She didn’t come around?” Harry asks. Liam gives a snort of derisive laughter before turning back to the tank, scrubbing away at the surface of the nearest tank.

“Come around,” Payne scoffs. “She kicked me out when I was signing up. Came back home and all my stuff was in the driveway. She even changed the locks.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He’s pretty much at a loss for words—as much as his mother had been angry with him, she would never  _dream_ of kicking Harry out. “Hell. So that’s why you were alone on enlistment day.”

Payne doesn’t answer; instead he clicks his tongue and looks at Harry. He sticks his hand out. “The name’s Liam."

“I’m Harry,” Harry says, shaking Liam’s hand. Liam almost smiles at him before turning back to the spot on the tank that he’s been consistently rubbing without much avail.

 

_I’m waking up_

_I feel it in my bones_

_Enough to make my systems blow_

_Welcome to the new age_

_To the new age_

_Welcome to the new age_

_To the new age_

“So, since we’re sharing,” Liam says as he helps Harry clean off the rest of the tank. “What’s up with you?”

Harry furrows his brow and bites his lip. “What do you mean?”

“Something that I’ve figured is that there’s always a  _reason_ people join the army. Some might say they just want to defend their country, which is believable. But,” Liam shrugs noncommittally, “there’s almost always something else, too.”

Harry pretends to think for a moment, although he already knows that if there is an underlying cause, it’s Louis. He wants to fight for Louis, keep him safe from anyone who might  _dare_ touch a hair on his head, save him and shelter him from the dangers of this treacherous world. And that’s exactly what he tells Liam.

“My boyfriend,” he says, watching Liam’s reaction carefully. He’s glad to see that Liam doesn’t even blink when he says boyfriend, so he continues. “Louis is his name. To me he’s like…the sun and the moon and the stars and the sky and the oceans, you know? So I guess my  _reason_  is that I love him and if something ever happened to him, something that  _I_ could somehow prevent—” Harry swallows a lump in his throat at the thought of anything happening to his Louis.

Liam nods, but Harry is the only one who can understand how Louis makes him feel. He’s fighting for  _Louis_ , sticking it out through this dreadful boot camp for  _Louis_ ; hell, he agreed to have all his hair cut off for  _Louis._

“You really love him, then,” Liam says. Harry nods and starts working on his side of the tank.  _Hell yeah he does._

_———————_

Liam and Harry are done after a few hours and meet the other enlistees at the obstacle course, where they’re due to meet before lunch. The tanks honestly don’t look very clean, although the rags and towels they have are very dirty; all they’ve managed to do is get some dirt and grime off the wheels. No one is going to question them right now, though—they’re all looking at the course in front of them.

It looks almost exactly like the movies: a low bridge of barbed wire to crawl under, the rope wall, the parallel bars, the swinging trainer—there’s even a ramp that you have to use to jump over more barbed wire. 

The staff sergeant’s back again, and when he sees Harry the first thing he does is smile wickedly. “And now Private Styles is going to demonstrate for us!”

Harry raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything as he slowly sets down the filthy towels in the red dirt and walks over to the where the Sergeant is. He hears faint murmurs of disapproval at the sergeant from behind him, but no one is as brave as Liam was this morning. Indeed, even Liam doesn’t seem to want to say anything. Harry glances behind him at Liam, who only shakes his head and shrugs.

“So, Styles,” the sergeant says with the same wicked grin on his face. “You’re going to start from the rope wall, make your way through the swinging trainer, then parallel bars, hang upside down on the ropes and climb your way to the other side, get over the ramp—be careful of the wire at the bottom—crawl underneath the barbed wire bridges and finally jump into the sandpit and make your way back here, do I make myself clear? Good, off you go.”

In truth Harry hasn’t heard half of what’s been said to him because he’s thinking of all the ways barbed wire can snag at his skin and tear it away. Still, he doesn’t let his fear show through on his face because he’s thinking of Louis again, and Louis’ voice is encouraging him to prove this fucker wrong, because it’s obvious to everyone that the sergeant doesn’t think he’s going to be able to get through it. Harry steps back so that he can give himself a running start with getting over the wall. It should be fairly simple—jump over the wall and slide down the rope to the other side.

“Styles!” someone yells out. It’s not the sergeant, however; when he turns around he sees Liam, who is giving him a thumbs-up sign and cheering for him. Soon others join in, clapping and yelling for Harry. He gives them a little, half smile, showing of the dimples in his cheeks and begins.

The wall is easy enough, he finds, although he misses the rope completely and ends up falling on his side into the hard earth. There are sympathetic groans behind him but Liam’s voice rises over them: “Shake it off, Harry, keep going!”

So he does. He stands up and runs to the swinging trainer, placing his hands firmly at either side of the rails and lifting himself, using his hands to get to the other end. Already his muscles are on fire, his body is begging him to stop, but he’s not about to give the sergeant the satisfaction of him quitting.

The parallel bars are easy enough—they remind Harry a little bit of the monkey bars at the playground by his house. He would always go straight to them when his mother took he and Gemma there, so now Harry moves easily through them and moves on to the next exercise.

By now all the privates are shouting  _go, Styles, go_ or something similar, and even though Harry’s exhausted, he’s smiling through his sweat, breezing through the ropes and sprinting over to the ramp.

Harry didn’t know he was afraid of barbed wire until this moment. He looks out over the edge where the ramp levels off and sees the circular coils of sharp wire at the bottom, and he wonders whether or not he can still pass boot camp if he positively refuses to do anything with wire. When he turns around and looks at the sergeant (who is looking back at him) he knew immediately that wasn’t an option.

“STYLES!” a voice yells, and Harry knows it’s Liam again. “C’mon, Harry, you can get this!”

“Go Harry!” someone else yells, and he can’t quite identify this voice. Other cheers follow it, so Harry wipes his sweaty face with his sleeve and goes back to the start of the ramp. He doesn’t think about the wire that could very possibly  _slice his skin like a fucking guillotine_ ; instead he thinks of Louis, of his smile, of how, if he was here, he’d be the person cheering for him the loudest.

Harry runs with that thought in mind and jumps right off the edge of the ramp.

He hears something cracking underneath him before he feels the pain. He’s still in shock that he’s actually just  _done_ that, even if he’s landed hard on his right hand.

He thinks he’s fine until he tries to stand up and  _that’s_ when the pain hits. It shoots up and down his wrist and all he can do is cradle his right wrist against his chest. He’s genuinely scared; he’s never broken anything in his life so this is the most terrifying thing in the world to him. He swallows and spares a look down.

The sight makes Harry turn his head to the side and throw up. His fingers are giant and swollen and his wrist is already puffing up like a fucking birthday balloon. He rolls his eyes upwards and lies down, away from his sick. There’s a throbbing, sharp pain in his wrist still and he honestly doesn’t know what to do about it. If he were any other private, he would be able to stop by now—but this sergeant just seems to hate Harry for no reason at all.

This is proven when he hears another derisive shout from the start of the course: “PRIVATE STYLES! YOU QUITTIN’, BABY?”

Harry grits his teeth, and although he knows he really shouldn’t give in to the sergeant’s taunts, because that  _just_ what he wants, he stands up anyway, careful not to put too much strain on his wrist.

“Don’t do it, Harry, you’re gonna hurt yourself even more than you already have!” Liam shouts. Harry ignores him and walks over to the low beams where the sharp silver coils are stretched. He slowly lies back down, on his stomach this time, prepared for the belly crawl through the mud.

“Hey!” the sergeant shouts but Harry doesn’t look at him. A pair of army boots similar to his own appears in front of his face, quickly replaced by someone’s knees, and when Harry finally decides to look up, he sees a boy—not Liam, someone else. He has black hair and hazel eyes, and his jaw is set in a determined sort of motion. He lies down in the same position as Harry and grabs his uninjured hand in a decisive sort of matter.

“C’mon,” he says. Harry can read the name sewn on his tag— _Malik_. “There’s nothing that says someone can’t help you through, and you’re hurt, so if there is a rule, this overrules it.” 

And without further ado, this Malik guy that Harry doesn’t even know is helping him belly-crawl underneath the wire bridge.

 

_I raise my flags, don my clothes_

_It’s a revolution, I suppose_

_We’re painted red,_

_To fit right in_

 

_I’m breaking in,_

_Shaping up,_

_Then checking out on the prison bus_

_This is it, the apocalypse_

_I’m waking up_

_I feel it in my bones_

_Enough to make my systems blow_

_Welcome to the new age_

_To the new age_

_Welcome to the new age_

_To the new age_

_All systems go_

_The sun hasn’t died_

_Deep in my bones_

_Straight from inside_

When they get across, everyone is cheering again. The only one who doesn’t look happy to see Harry is the sergeant, which is expected. It’s surprising when he turns to Malik, who is muddy and sweaty, and says, “Did I  _say_ you could help him, Malik?”

And it just as surprising when Malik stands up a little straighter and looks the sergeant dead in the eye and says, “He did what you said. All you told him to do was demonstrate how to get through the course. You never said that no one could help him if he hurt himself. He did what you said.” And Harry can hardly believe this, because this is the second person to stand up for him in one day.

Everyone crowds around Harry and Liam pats him on the back and says  _nice job, Harry_ , but the only person that really matters right now is Malik and he’s nowhere to be seen.

When everyone is let in for lunch and Harry is allowed to go to the infirmary, he feels a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him along. He glances around and sees Malik, who is smiling softly, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“The name’s Zayn,” Malik says. “Zayn Malik. Nice job out there, Harry.” 

_———————_

_Dear Louis,_

_It’s been three weeks, four days and seventeen hours since I left you. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been keeping count since I was shipped out.  I’m sorry I couldn’t call or write or anything; they’re really working me hard, here._

_I miss you, so so so so so much. It hasn’t been too long, I know, but it feels like it’s been forever. How are you doing, Lou? I miss your voice and your smell and the way you smile and the way you cry and—well, like I’ve said, I just miss you._

_If you saw me now, you wouldn’t be able to recognize me. They sheared off all my hair, and I know I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I’m already bulging with muscle, if I do say so myself (and I do)._

_You’re probably wondering how I’ve been doing. I’ve made a few friends: Liam, who I saw at enlistment. Don’t know if you remember him—he already had short hair, brown eyes, birthmark on his neck. Liam was the first person to stand up for me (because the sergeant’s a real dick and hates me for some reason). We cleaned tanks together. Liam’s mother kicked him out when he signed up for the military. Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?_

_The other friend I’ve made is Zayn. Zayn’s kind of like me, you know? Zayn couldn’t fight before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was repealed, so now he’s fighting for his boyfriend Niall, who actually is from_ _Ireland_ _. He and Zayn met online (via World of Warcraft, if you can believe it) and Zayn flew Niall down so they could meet. And then Niall just decided to stay here with Zayn. Niall pretty much unknowingly owns Zayn’s heart, and Zayn’s planning on marrying him as soon as he comes home. Niall lives in the same town as your mother, if you can believe it. I’ll enclose his address—maybe you can look him up._

_All I want is to be able to come home and kiss you, and touch you and make love to you, and at the same, I absolutely_ have  _to stay here and fight. I hope you understand. I wish there was another way to satisfy this need to serve that doesn’t require leaving, but to me, there isn’t._

_Could you say hello to my mom? And my sister, too, if you get the chance. I don’t have enough time to write individual letters to everyone back home, so make sure they’re ok, if you can._

_I’m sorry I can’t write more right now—we’re about to leave for more training and I want to send this today. Hopefully it’ll reach you sometime next week, and hopefully I’ll get enough time to call, or maybe we can Skype._

_I love you, Boo Bear. Please never forget that._

_—Hazza_

_P.S. When I come home, Liam’s coming with me. He’s going to be living with us. I hope that that’s ok. Liam’s really clean and nice and fair and quiet and everything. And he doesn’t mind loud sex noises._


End file.
